Chapter 137
(Author POV)
(Kingdom of Varynthar)
Varynthar was once a mighty kingdom that stood for righteousness. Though it had never been blessed with abundant magic, it had stood alongside the mighty Ardentia Dukedom and remained loyal to it even after its fall.
However, after the death of King Caelan and the rise of his son Malakor, the kingdom descended into corruption, manslaughter, crime, and poverty. Its people suffered while their king indulged himself without restraint.
The palace of Varynthar reflected the same excess. Gold climbed the walls, chandeliers glittered with gemstones, and polished marble floors reflected the light like ice.
Between jeweled pillars hung the mounted heads of extinct creatures-dire wolves, horned beasts, and wyverns frozen in eternal roars. They were trophies meant to proclaim that nothing existed beyond the king's reach.
Yet, for all its wealth, the palace felt cold and empty.
Servants hurried through the corridors with their heads lowered, speaking only when spoken to. Guards dressed in black armor trimmed with crimson stood motionless along the walls, watching everything around them.
Inside the royal chambers, the silence was even heavier.
Nearly a dozen servants surrounded King Malakor Claude Dravenor as he stood before a towering mirror. His personal attendant carefully fastened the final clasps of his dark coat, though his hands trembled slightly and a bead of sweat slid down his temple.
Steady. Just one more clasp.
His fingers slipped, and the metal hook scraped against the fabric.
The room froze.
The servant's face drained of color. "I'm... terribly sorry, Your Majesty."
No one moved. Nearby, another servant remained kneeling on the floor, holding a pair of polished boots on a silver tray. His arms ached from holding them, but lowering them without permission could mean death.
Everyone knew the stories. A maid had supposedly been killed for spilling tea, while a tailor had been hanged for making a sleeve too short. Whether the stories were true no longer mattered. Fear ruled the palace.
The attendant carefully fastened the clasp a second time.
A sharp knock broke the silence, followed by three measured raps.
The captain of the guard opened the doors after receiving a nod from the king. A man dressed in black armor stepped inside and dropped to one knee.
"The General of the Royal Knights greets His Royal Highness, Malakor Claude Dravenor," the knight said.
The king did not turn. "What is it?"
"The Minister of Eryndor has arrived. Christopher Lewis Arden requests an audience, Your Majesty."
Malakor's reflection met his own eyes in the mirror. A slow smile spread across his face as he slipped on his gloves.
"Show him in."
The servants quietly released the breath they had been holding, but none of them relaxed. In Varynthar, surviving one moment only meant waiting in fear for the next.
The doors swung open as King Malakor strode into the chamber, his footsteps echoing across the polished marble.
The greedy fool has finally come to collect his prize.
The thought amused him.
Christopher Lewis Arden had exceeded expectations, selling out his own kingdom for a single promise. He had provided Varynthar with military routes, supply depots, defense weaknesses, royal divisions, confidential secrets, and even information about movements within the Magic Tower.
All for a crown.
All for the promise of seeing Eryndor beneath his feet.
Malakor almost admired his ambition.
Almost.
The guards pulled the great doors shut behind him. Christopher stood at the center of the chamber in immaculate court robes, bowing deeply as the king approached.
"Your Majesty."
Malakor offered him a thin smile. "You have been... remarkably useful."
Christopher straightened, barely managing to hide his satisfaction. "I merely recognized where the future lay. The King of Eryndor is powerless now, and his court is divided. This is the perfect opportunity to begin the rebellion."
Malakor studied him for a moment before nodding.
"Very well."
A smile spread across Christopher's face, and his shoulders relaxed. "I knew Your Majesty would see reason."
Malakor began walking slowly around the room.
"I must admit, Christopher, your services deserve an extraordinary reward."
The minister's eyes lit up. "You are most generous."
Malakor stopped and lifted one finger.
The Royal Knights moved instantly, seizing Christopher by both arms.
The minister's smile vanished.
"W-What is the meaning of this? You promised me! I gave you everything!"
Malakor watched him with mild curiosity. "And I am repaying you."
"You cannot do this!" Christopher struggled against their iron grip.
"You truly believed I would place my trust in a man who betrayed his own king?" Malakor sighed wearily. "If a man can sell one crown, he can sell another."
Christopher's composure shattered completely. "No! Please! I can still be useful! I know the nobles, the treasury, the army-"
Malakor had already lost interest. With a casual flick of his hand, he gestured toward the exit.
"Take him."
The knights dragged the screaming minister backward. Christopher dug his heels into the marble floor as his desperate cries echoed through the chamber.
"Your Majesty! Please! Mercy! You gave me your word!"
Malakor watched him with complete boredom.
Then, as though he had suddenly remembered a minor detail, he shifted his gaze lazily toward the guards.
"Oh. As a token of my gratitude..."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Be gentle with the decapitation."
The heavy doors closed, cutting off Christopher's screams and swallowing them into the silence of the palace.
The General of the Royal Knights remained standing as Malakor lowered himself onto the throne. The room fell silent once again, save for the distant echo of Christopher's final screams.
The man had been useful.
Christopher's betrayal had achieved its purpose.
By feeding Varynthar every weakness he could uncover and manipulating the Eryndorian court, he had lured King Alaric and Queen Seraphine to the border.
He had provided a way to poison the queen and make her ill, distracting the king long enough for the ambush to take place.
Once the Eryndorian defenses were compromised, the gates had been opened, and the dark magic had easily broken King Alaric's already weakened will.
It had been a worthwhile investment.
Yet the battle had produced one unexpected complication: Rhaevan Aetheris.
Malakor drummed his fingers against the armrest. Of all the people who could have appeared on that battlefield, he had never expected Rhaevan. More importantly, he had never expected the man to wield such powerful magic.
The High Arcanist of the Magic Tower.
Malakor had heard stories of his achievements and the extraordinary strength of his magic, but witnessing it firsthand had been different. There had been something familiar about it, something Malakor could not dismiss.
A faint, humorless smile tugged at his lips.
Rhaevan Aetheris.
Or perhaps... Aurelian Caelan Dravenor.
The son of the late King Caelan and Queen Elara.
The rightful heir to Varynthar.
The child who should have died years ago.
Malakor had always believed that the throne belonged to him.
He was King Caelan's firstborn son, born from a lowly maid who had somehow obtained drugs to sedate the king before sleeping with him.
When the king discovered what she had done and learned that she was pregnant, he had been furious.
Yet he eventually took her in as his mistress, largely because Queen Elara had been unable to bear a child despite years of marriage and had pleaded with the king not to destroy the unborn child.
That child was Malakor.
For years, he had believed that being the king's firstborn made the throne his by right. That belief only grew stronger as Queen Elara continued to fail to produce an heir.
Or rather, as Malakor and his mother made certain that she never would.
For years, his mother secretly poisoned the queen. The poisons worked flawlessly until King Caelan eventually discovered the truth. She accepted the blame without a word and met the executioner's blade.
By the time Malakor, who had been sent to the distant borders, learned what had happened, it was already too late.
Queen Elara was pregnant.
The wretched seed had survived.
Malakor had tried everything to rid himself of the unborn heir, from subtle poisons and bribed servants to traitorous midwives, but every attempt had failed.
Then fate gave him another opportunity.
When the prince was four years old, Queen Elara left the capital.
All it took was a carefully arranged accident: a frightened horse, a broken bridge rail, and a carriage tumbling into a raging river.
A tragedy mourned by an entire kingdom.
The queen died as planned, and King Caelan followed soon after, a grieving man who was easily disposed of.
The throne finally became Malakor's.
Or so he had believed.
Malakor's fingers tightened around the armrest.
The child had lived.
Against all probability, the little prince had survived the river and somehow found his way into Eryndor.
A humorless chuckle escaped him.
Of all things to inherit from Queen Elara, the boy had inherited her magic-a gift Malakor had spent years trying to erase from the royal bloodline.
And now, that very magic had returned in the form of the one man who could strip everything from him.